


I've Been Undone

by PaperDragons



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 11:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3527198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperDragons/pseuds/PaperDragons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I ain't goin' back ta her, Race.  Not now, not ever."</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Been Undone

______  
"Whad'da ya say, Spot? The old skirt was out agin today. She's still lookin' for ya. If I was you- which I ain't, but if I was, I'd ask her what she wants 'bout now." Racetrack's voice echoes slightly in the warehouse. It's hard to see in the gloom, but he can just make out Spot's hunched shape perched on a stack of pallets not far off. He starts to walk forwards, boots loudly clicking on the concrete floor when Spot speaks. He stops walking.   
"I ain't goin' back ta her, Race. Not now, not ever. I went back for a day las' year 'cause I thought it could work, and dammit I thought she'd love me again. But th' nex' mornin' it was the same again, so I left an' I ain't goin' back. Jesus-" he breaks off as his voice cracks, and Race crosses the last few feet to him and places his hand on Spot's shoulder, rubbing small circles with his ink stained fingers. The younger boy is taught like a wire and he shakes slightly under Race's palm.   
"What happened, Spot? Who is that woman? She's out wi' the nuns ev'y day-"  
"Leechin' off their charity I bet. Damn woman never worked a day in 'er life."   
"Who is she? An' why's she callin' you Patrick still? You ain't been Patrick for- since you got the key."   
"Patrick Sean Conlon." Spot said bitterly. His next words freeze Race's still-moving hand.   
"She's my mother. Agatha Murphy Conlon."  
"Your mother? Spot, you have a family?"  
"She may be my mother, but there ain't a bone in 'er body that loved me or me father. She loved the word 'a god and everything a religious person said to her was gospel-truth.   
She chased out my da' when I was four- lobbed a bottle 'a Foster's at his head. He said he'd come back for me an' then he was gone. Poof."   
He paused, and Race sank down onto the palette beside him, holding the King of Brooklyn close.   
"He- he never came back. My Ma went outta her mind then, and she took to roughin' me every chance she got. It started with slaps and insults, but I ran when it turned to getting shoved into the wall and shards of glass bein' tucked in ta my pillow." Spot let out a strangled sob, turning and burying his face into Race's chest. He breathed for a few minutes before continuing.  
"I ran ta Brooklyn. Figured it would do for a while until I could get further away. I changed my name from Patrick, but I kept my da's name in case he ever comes lookin'... Then Jay brought me in wi' the newsies an' I took the Key. She's huntin' me, Race. I'm scared 'a her."  
Race didn't know what he should say. Instead of speaking, he pulled Spot closer to him, letting the younger's face rest in the crook of his neck. He kissed Spot's cheek gently and whispered sweet nothings to him for what could have been years.   
Eventually, Spot pushed away and glowered at Race, his cocky attitude fully returned. Gone was the scared little boy and Brooklyn's fearless leader was back.   
"Tell anyone about this an' I'll soak ya."  
"What ev'a you say, Spot. Nice talkin' to ya."   
Racetrack headed for the door of the warehouse, boots clicking loudly on the floor and he paused at the door, pulling out his cigar when Spot spoke.  
"Racetrack."  
"Ya?"  
"Thanks for listenin' to me."  
Race turned and touched the brim of his hat.   
"We'll keep her away. Don' you worry. Make up a story 'bout her harrassin' the nuns or somethin'. But on the honor 'a Manhattan, you're safe."   
"Manhattan has honor?"  
"Have a good evenin', Spot."   
Race stepped out the door into the quiet evening, and he was sure he'd heard a soft whisper of "thank you" behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm always one for a tragic backstory. And I wrote this during study hall. Time well spent, I think.


End file.
